


Love Letters

by rixie_rhee



Series: In the Mood [7]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, F/M, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 01:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19802047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixie_rhee/pseuds/rixie_rhee
Summary: Nix shivers constantly and sometimes his teeth chatter no matter how hard he tries to still them. Irregular red blotches cover waxy skin that clings too tightly to the bones beneath. His eyes water and the circles under them are so dark they could be bruises. His nose won’t stop running; he’s wiped it so much that the underside is sore and peeling. Nix’s chapped lips sting, his white-knuckled, dirty hands ache with cold; he’s even lost weight in his goddamn fingers. He didn’t know that was possible. In all this he is just like everyone else. None of them had any idea what cold could be until they ended up here.Nix certainly hadn’t. Nothing in his former life prepared him for the Army, let alone this.





	Love Letters

The Ardennes have an eerie sort of beauty juxtaposed with the ugly and mundane. Grey, soft-focused light filters through branches crusted with crystalline ice; the dingy snow is crossed and muddied with boot-prints. The forest is something out of one of the old fairy tales, in which the fairies steal your baby or the mermaids try to drown you. Snow hangs in the air like fog, flakes so small they’re only visible as a whole, as if they’re not individuals at all. The air dampens and distorts any sound, making it almost impossible to locate the source until it’s nearly on top of you. The sense of anticipation, of _before_ , hangs in the air, too. They’re all fucking freezing, waiting for whatever goddamn horror comes next.

There is no moral here. Being good, dependable, courageous, won’t keep anyone safe. The good guy doesn’t always win. The enemy is no fairy-tale creature, something far more dangerous than that, just ordinary men, cold and hungry and scared. And probably brave and determined and desperate as well.

Nix shivers constantly and sometimes his teeth chatter no matter how hard he tries to still them. Irregular red blotches cover waxy skin that clings too tightly to the bones beneath. His eyes water and the circles under them are so dark they could be bruises. His nose won’t stop running; he’s wiped it so much that the underside is sore and peeling. Nix’s chapped lips sting, his white-knuckled, dirty hands ache with cold; he’s even lost weight in his goddamn fingers. He didn’t know that was possible. In all this he is just like everyone else. None of them had any idea what cold could be until they ended up here.

Nix certainly hadn’t. Nothing in his former life prepared him for the Army, let alone this. He traveled in comfort, his meals had multiple courses, he wore tailored clothing, had the best of everything money could buy. The rules of etiquette, both spoken and unspoken, were thoroughly instilled as to avoid any faux pas, his manners and charm had been cultivated since childhood. He never had to tolerate inconvenience or discomfort--of the physical kind, anyway--that wasn’t self-imposed. There were plenty of things he was obligated to do for the sake of social convention, and as much as he resented it sometimes, no one would expect him to freeze his ass off in filthy clothes. Now his hands look like an old man’s, he hasn’t had a decent meal in God knows how long, he sleeps in a hole roughly the same dimensions as a grave. What they call coffee has, at best, a passing acquaintance to what he drank at home. Even the one comfort available to him, his fucking whiskey, burns his goddamn lips so much it’s almost not worth drinking. Almost.

He stares into the trees with unseeing eyes, letting his mind wander. This is a cold hell, terrible, but somehow more real than the first twenty-three years of his life. For the first time, Nix feels genuinely useful. He is good at his work, he earned his promotions through his own merit, not by any connections he might have. Still, he wishes he was anywhere but here. A white sand beach and a jewel-blue ocean would be nice. You’d be able to feel the weight of the sun on your skin and the air would carry the spray and salt. Boots crunching on the frozen ground bring him out of his reverie. The gait is unfamiliar, but whoever he is, he’s not making any effort to be particularly quiet. Probably safe.

“Captain Nixon, sir?”

“Yeah?” He half turns, wishing for gloves or a hat. And he’s lucky; he has an almost-warm-enough coat with a collar to turn up against the wind. Most of these poor bastards aren’t even that fortunate.

“Mail, sir.” The private holds out a letter, Nix nods his thanks when he takes it. The kid’s bare fingers tremble; he can’t be any older than nineteen at the outside.

The plain white envelope glows in the gloom. Nix knows who it’s from without looking. The few letters he’s gotten from Kathy came in creamy envelopes that must have started out elegant and understated in New York and arrived smudged with graphite and fingerprints. Everyday envelopes contain Rissy’s letters. She doesn’t need to write often but does anyway. They’re smudged, too, but usually not as badly because they don’t have as far to come.

Rissy writes to him whenever he’s anywhere that doesn’t allow them to see one another for more than a few days. If the mail is delayed, he’ll get two or three at once. Her letters are a much appreciated comfort but never a surprise, not like the one Kathy sent last fall. He still hasn’t written her back. His wife must have been feeling generous the day she wrote it. Her letter was impersonal but pleasant, if a bit too polite and distant, but there was no sniping. She’d signed it ‘love,’ said she loved him once. He felt guilty, seeing those words in her handwriting. It’s one of the reasons he hasn’t replied to her letter.

Nix wonders if Kathy thinks he’s kept his wedding vows. She knows him after all, she would remember what it was like between them in the beginning, before it got ugly. Maybe she wouldn’t even care that much about his infidelity, but she’d be both embarrassed and furious that anyone knew about it. She’d have something to say about Rissy, too--as if Kathy herself hadn’t gone to bed with him before they were married--but probably more out of wounded pride than anything else. She certainly hadn’t seemed heart-broken when he left. If she loved him, she would have written more than a handful of times. Of course, if he loved her, he would have, too. That’s the crux of it, isn’t it?

Maybe Kathy hasn’t been completely devoted; he doesn’t know if he really expected her to be. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He can be petty, but not vindictive. It can’t be wrong to want to be happy, can it? And, frankly, wouldn’t she be happier without him?

They’d gotten married in a mad rush--everything was urgent, fever-pitched. Not because she was pregnant, but only just. He married her in the Municipal Building, the whole thing took less than ten minutes. They’d laughed coming down the steps together, her blonde curls bouncing in time with her tapping heels. It was in the paper the next day; written as if it was an event instead of a simple civil ceremony. He left not long after, and it was already getting bad by then. It was worse each time he came home on leave.

But he’d liked her at first; she was pretty and smart, with a sometimes-acid tongue that he found charming until she aimed it at him. She had a sense of humor, but no sense of irony. Even so, there were still fun parts of his furloughs and her few visits, though the balance tipped further and further each time until the bickering outweighed the laughter and they slept with their backs to each other.

Kathy was a lady; she had the right manners and upbringing. She held the social traditions sacred, all the rules and etiquette, and she didn’t like it when he poked fun at them. What Kathy loved about being a Nixon was all bullshit to Nix. He was tired of the obligations, of being stifled and bored, the sameness of it all. He didn’t know what he wanted to do instead, only that he wanted something else. The Army offered an escape and no one fault him for doing his patriotic duty.

If he and Kathy had known each other longer, they would have realized they simply weren’t suited. As it was, he had an idea she felt just as stuck as he did. Though she might like all the trappings being his wife provided, she didn’t seem to like him much. Marrying her had been a mistake; maybe in his more petulant moments he doesn’t care if he hurts her, most of the time he wishes that he could just quietly end it. But what can you do? The status quo in their circle is that you have your life, your wife has hers, you’re happy enough, and hell, maybe you even enjoy one another’s company. If there’s a girl, your wife pretends not to know about her for appearance’s sake. As long as you’re discrete, it’s fine. Of course, that only works if you and your wife can tolerate being in the same room for more than an hour at a time. And if the girl doesn’t hold your heart in the palm of her hand.

And there is his son, who’d been a baby the last time Nix had seen him. He loves his little boy in a vague way that leaves him sad. He wouldn’t know his son’s voice if he heard it. The same is probably true of a lot of the men here. That doesn’t make him feel better; it makes him feel worse. Fucking war. He wonders if he’d recognize his child if he saw him. This train of thought makes him slightly sick. It’s dangerous to be maudlin. Nix shakes his head to clear it, as if physical motion can do that. It doesn’t work.

Rissy’s rounded letters and the curlicues she hasn’t quite abandoned do a better job, he actually smiles. It’s small but genuine even if his lips tremble. He isn’t any warmer but the cold is suddenly easier to ignore.

He trudges to his foxhole and drops in, pebbles and loose earth pattering along with him. He pulls the tarp almost all the way over, allowing both enough light to see and the pretense of conserving any of the heat produced by his own body. The long-unwashed wool blanket is almost as stiff as his joints, only it can’t creak the way his tendons and ligaments do in the cold.

Nix slides a finger under the flap, where Rissy would have licked it. He rolls his eyes at himself when he brings his fingertip to his mouth without thinking. Ridiculous. Hopeless. Jesus, he wants her. He misses everything about her, but he doesn’t want her to be here.

No, better she be set back from this a little, where she can at least be indoors. Bad enough she isn’t at home, way back in the States. Selfishly, he’s glad she decided to come over here, or else he never would have spilled whiskey on her shoe, and she wouldn’t have laughed, and he never would have kissed her, and she never would have gone to bed with him or fallen in love with him, and he never would have finally whispered ‘I love you’ in the dark, and she would never had said it back, and she would never have written the letter in his hand right now.

‘Dear Lew,’ she starts. She almost always just calls him his name. She’s sweetheart, honey, kitten to him. Young lady in moments private enough to make her blush if he calls her that in public. But he’s nearly always Lew if she’s speaking. If she’s writing, it’s a different story.

‘Darling,’ she says, ‘first of all, I love you so much. I hope you’re--I was going to say doing well, but I don’t think anyone can say that right now--so I just hope you aren’t hurt or sick and that you have enough to eat, such as it is. It’s too much to wish you aren’t cold.

I was looking out the window last night, before I went to bed and I thought of you. The trees were all silvery, just the way they are at home. It was misty, beautiful, but so bleak and sad at the same time. Winter hasn’t ever seemed this lonely. It was always a cozy time to be indoors with the people you love. We’d play in the snow and come in for hot chocolate and dry our mittens on the radiator. The wet wool would stink and I even miss that. I wonder if any of us will ever be warm again. It’s cold everywhere, even under the covers. I miss you. I don’t think I’ve ever missed anyone so much in my entire life. I wish you were here with me.

Does that sound awful? I don’t mean because I was in bed, I just miss you. But you understand what I mean, I know you do. Come to think of it, maybe I mean more than one thing after all. You can read whatever you want into that.’

His lips twitch upward while eyes move back and forth.

‘Remember when you used to take me out on picnics, and we’d lie under that huge oak tree? I loved watching the shadows move across your face. And everything else we used to do there, too. And swimming? Remember the night you showed me the lost pleiad and the stars all seemed so close? They’re so far away now. I feel so far away from you, my heart, even though it can’t really be that far, but it still is.

There’s a new girl here. She was singing At Last, and that made me think of you, too, and the night we had dinner in Aldbourne. You held my hand under the table so no one would see. We ate and drank and then we danced. (Wouldn’t you give your left arm for a meal like that now? I’d be sorely tempted.) They were playing At Last when you kissed me right on the dance-floor. It was such a relief not to have to worry that we’d give our secret away anymore. I’m not sure we could have kept it much longer, anyway. Someone was bound to notice that I couldn’t keep my eyes off you and you kept sneaking me off into corners. The whole night was a warm blur after that. We had fun, didn’t we? But I always have a good time with you. It seems so long ago.

I miss hearing your voice, and how warm you are, tucking my face into your throat so I can smell you--not soap or anything, just you. I miss you telling me things, and your hands, and kisses, and how you make me feel safe. But mostly what I want to do is keep you warm and give you a hot dinner, and just sit with you and play with your hair and you can put your head on in my lap and just rest.

I’m sorry, I’m writing nonsense. I just miss you so much right now. I‘d give my _right_ arm to see you for ten minutes…’

It doesn’t escape him that she omits anything that would worry him. She writes simple love-letters to comfort him. Every damn line is a different way to say how much she loves him, misses him, thinks of him. Her letters are just like her: loving, funny, teasing, sweet and kind and caring, absurd and serious by turns. Genuine. Nix laughs out loud when she calls him candy-pants. She’s kidding--her sarcastic streak is almost as wide as his, and laced with irony at that--but she also isn’t. As much as what they have is about love--and oh, it is--it’s about _that_ , too.

Maybe there really is a God, how else would have Rissy literally fallen into his arms?

It’s a small miracle, both wonderful and terrible. Because what the fuck will they do? What can they do? Or maybe the worst will happen and it won’t be an issue after all. He can’t think of her like that, and what would he do if--Nix decides not to pursue that thought, there’s nothing to be done about it right now anyway. He wipes his eyes without being aware of it. Nix swallows and continues reading. All three pages are full of little personal things that wouldn’t make sense to anyone but him. Rissy writes as if she’s sitting right next to him. The letter is her half of a conversation. He reads it like a starving man would devour a hot meal set out before him.

She finishes it with Your--not Yours--Rissy, a line of X’s and O’s, and a lipstick kiss. She wrote the best three-word sentence there is three or four times. She always does. Rissy is extravagant in her affection.

Nix folds the pages and stows them in his pocket. He finally looks at the other thing that was in the envelope; what he saved for last. The snapshot caught Rissy by a window, half her face lit up by the sun. She’s beautiful, even in her work dress, even with the bones in her face too prominent and her chin too sharp. He misses the pretty roundness her cheeks used to have; he wants to put it back. Her dimple is still there, though. She hadn’t had her lipstick on that day. The wide smile in a thin face is for him and Nix loves her for it. Rissy’s eyes are the same, even if he can’t see the freckles under them.

On the back she’s written ‘To Lew, With Love from Rissy, December 1944.’ The L in his name is written with a flourish and bigger than any other letter. That’s how she says it, too. That L comes out of her mouth softer and more liquid than it does in any other word. The one in the all-important four-letter L word is a very close second, but only when she’s talking about him.

The picture goes in his inside pocket along with today’s letter. There’s another one in there, too, so care-worn it’s almost falling apart. He’s afraid to unfold it now. The ink is worn away where the creases used to be, but he can remember what she wrote there anyway. Another photo is tucked inside those pages; it has seen better days as well. What little is left of the border is frayed and curled. He runs his thumb up and down the edge whenever he looks at it. Or shows it to anyone. Or reaches into his pocket. He’s glad to have a new photo, not to replace the old one, but just to have and to hold--Jesus, he’d marry her right this fucking minute if that were in any way possible.

Nix sighs, breath pluming around his face. He imagines he can feel the warmth coming from inside himself. Maybe he can. Maybe the air is cold enough to make even the smallest difference perceptible.

He’ll have to go see Rissy. It’s not that far in miles. He’ll take a detour next time he has to go to CP. His girl needs him almost as much as he needs her.

As for now, he can go get some coffee. The cup will warm his hands if nothing else. He can sit and talk to Dick, maybe persuade him out of the open air and into the slightly less frigid foxhole where they can at least be out of the wind. And he can annoy his friend, talk about his girl until Dick rolls his eyes in mock irritation.

Nix rises on aching legs and climbs upward despite reluctant muscles that resist stretching. His toes hurt, but at least he can feel them. Yes, coffee is a good idea.

The moonless, starless sky reminds him of a spill of ink. No pleiads tonight. No swimming, friendly towering oaks, or picnic blankets, either. It’s very nearly Christmas, so there wouldn’t be any of that even if he wasn’t here. But there will be coffee, and Dick, and he’s got Rissy’s letter in his pocket. The girl who loves him is somewhere under the same sky. Yes, he’s lucky, as fortunate as a man can be in the Ardennes in December 1944.

The night’s uneasy quiet unsettles Nix, and probably everyone else, too. They’re all beginning to get skittish, hyper-aware in anticipation. He tries to push it out of his mind. The trees are a slightly darker black than the sky, stark against the bluish snow. Nix is looking forward to the expression that will flick across Dick’s face when he watches Nix doctor his coffee. Maybe nothing will happen tonight and they can all sleep a little--

The sky rips open as light streaks overhead, lightening magnified a thousand times. For a second, night is noon. No thunder follows, but somewhere close by, trees splinter and crack. Clods of dirt and rocks rain down around him. The air is thick with shouting and boots pounding on the ground. Nix’s adrenaline spikes, he moves quickly, observing and evaluating and finding cover. By now, he can do this almost without thinking. Dick says he’s brave, the truth is he just doesn’t stop long enough to be afraid or second-guess himself. They’re probably all the same way; for all these men, almost all of the time, the instinct to do what must be done outweighs the one to hesitate or hide. He’s proud of them. Whatever else he might be, he’s first and foremost a soldier, just like everyone else.

The coffee, the letter and photo, even Rissy herself, are pushed out of his mind. Not forgotten exactly, just put aside to remember later, should he get the chance. God willing.


End file.
